Broken Memories in Shattered Reflections
by Mystari
Summary: Erik and Christine grew up together, and they promise to keep in touch after high school graduation, but promises can be broken…until Christine’s world falls apart and she runs away from the past, only to find that the past cannot be so easily discarded.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! This is my first phanphic, so we'll see how it goes. Here's another modernday to throw in the bunch. Christine and Erik are about the same age, and Erik is not as…tortured as he usually is portrayed, but his life hasn't been easy.**

**Summary: Modernday. Erik and Christine grew up together, and when they graduate from high school, they promise to keep in touch, but promises can be broken…until Christine's world falls apart and she runs away from the past, only to find that the past cannot be discarded so easily.**

**Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own anything, as I'd be wealthy and watching the Broadway show instead of writing this if I did.**

* * *

"_We've really made it…graduation. Where have all the years gone?"_

_"Christine, Christine…" his lips twitched. "You are complaining like an old hag. It is not very becoming."_

_Christine sent him a smoldering glower. "I would prefer, if you please, _not_ to be compared to a hag, thank you very much." His response was a light smirk, and her scowl deepened until he burst out laughing at her expression. She gave up—she could never stay annoyed at him for long._

_Their teasing was interrupted by the announcer booming, "Christine Daae—honor roll, drum major, honors music and dance student." Christine stepped lightly up to the stage and took her diploma, aware of the applause and cheers in the audience. She turned and walked back to the student body, smiling as her eyes sought out her father, who was cheering heartily in the balcony._

"_Erik Lavonne—valedictorian, class president, top music, engineering, foreign language, and math student…" The list continued, mentioning each of his numerous honors and achievements. Christine found herself beaming proudly at her dear friend and music tutor—for, though his age surpassed hers by only a few months, he was likely the most talented musician for hundreds of miles around. _At least choosing a career wasn't hard for him_, she mused wryly. _Though, with his genius and talents, Erik could probably go into anything he wanted.

_The principal shook Erik's hand firmly, handing over the diploma and paying no attention to the mask that covered half of Erik's face. The entire town was used to it by now—it was another one of his eccentricities, and, with all of his accomplishments, nobody really cared about what lay below the mask anymore._

_Christine blew him a mocking kiss and waved Erik over as he walked from the stage, motioning to an empty chair by hers. A smirk playing about his mouth again, and he bowed gallantly, grasping her hand and raising it to his lips in an equally mocking gesture, drawing giggles from several nearby girls. _

_Christine rolled her eyes. "Well, Mr. Valedictorian, have fun in Paris on that full scholarship while we die from boredom here in America. Try not to seduce too many girls." This was met with an incredulous snort._

_In a more serious tone, she added, "You'll be amazing, I'm sure. You'll land a spot composing for that Opera Populaire in no time. And…" she hesitated, lowering her voice, "…and I'll miss you."_

_Erik smiled, his mocking attitude softening. "And you enjoy yourself singing at Julliard—a scholarship there is quite an honor. Try not to forget everything that I have stuffed in that cluttered brain of yours." Before Christine could piece together a retort, he gave a devilish grin._

"_And you may attract all the boys you wish, so long as you decline all their offers and concentrate on your music."_

_Christine glared at him. "You _know_ I wouldn't…"_

* * *

And then the ceremony ended, and Christine left Erik's side to meet with a few friends as they kissed high school goodbye.

"Christine Daae—salutatorian, honor roll, cast member of the Metropolitan Opera. Congratulations!"

She nodded and smiled absently as the dean handed her a diploma, shaking his hand and walking off the stage to a vacant seat in the audience. How different this graduation ceremony was from the one just three years ago, where she had friends who understood her heart and soul, where her future was bright and secure, where her father had sat in the audience, cheering, his face glowing with pride…

Christine shook away the memories—this was no place to break down and cry, like a little girl! No, it was time to move on; had it really been only two months? The days of partying, happiness, of sparkling music swirling in her ears, her fingers dancing gracefully over the ivory keys, her voice soaring to the heavens…those days were a lifetime away now, replaced by the draining, empty loneliness that now permeated her existence.

Around her everyone buzzed with the excitement befitting a group of graduating students on their last day of college, but the incessant whispers served only as a reminder to Christine of how alone she had become. Of course, having completed her courses a year early, she was in fact a year younger than the majority of the students sitting in this auditorium, which certainly did not help her to make friends.

Nobody understood—but that was not a surprise. There was a time when she had someone to whom she could run with her problems, when she was loved and guarded by her best friend, her tutor, her Angel…

_Oh, Erik…_

Christine set her lips resolutely as they threatened to tremble. This would not do. Erik, too, was a part of the past—and the past must be put behind, to allow room for the future.

* * *

_The rain poured down upon her head, soaking every inch of her scalp. She pulled her hood up, only to have it blown back again by the wind._

_"Ugh, curse it! Home isn't that far, anyway…"_

_There was a car in the driveway, but that was no surprise—her father often had visitors asking for a private performance or contracting for a concert, for his skills on the violin were world-renowned, and he was a busy man. _

_But on this day she didn't particularly care for visitors; she had so much to tell him! Her new spot at the Metropolitan Opera as a singer in the upcoming production, her status as salutatorian in her class, the fact that she could graduate a year early—life was good, and she would share her joy with her father this day, visitors or not._

_The front door, oddly, was open. "Papa, I'm home! Guess what? I've so much news! Papa?" _

_She burst into the living room, but it was empty. Undaunted, she flew upstairs to his room, knowing that if he was home, he'd be there. She fumbled with the doorknob in her excitement, but finally managed to get it open._

_Something was wrong. Three men in white stood in the room, but they looked nothing like the wealthy callers seeking a private concert, or the well-dressed businessmen looking for a contract. And her father was…_

_Her eyes widened in horror, and as her vision clouded she could make out a scream coming from somewhere in the distance before she gave in to the comforting darkness and sank away from reality._

* * *

**Hmm, not too much of a cliffy. So, what'dya think? Good, bad, terrible, ugly…? Leave me a review! Please? -eyes go all big and round and puppy-dog-like- Next chapter will be up soon! I hope.**

**Here's the next section! Yay, I love reviews. Thank you to everyone who reviewed D. **


	2. Chapter 2

**There'll be a bit more of Erik in this one, and in later chapters – I promise! I'm sorry about the amount of Christine, but I sort of need to develop the past. This chapter's a bit dark, and I tried to make it slightly lighter…**

_Where was she? It was too bright, and the cushions too soft for it to be her apartment. She tried to crack an eye open, but it would not obey. For that matter, neither would any other part of her body. _

_Christine, usually so calm and collected, panicked. Her brain continued to scream that something was wrong; if only she could open her eyes…_

_And then there was singing in her head._

Think of me

Think of me fondly

When we've said goodbye

_What the…?_

Remember me

Once in a while

Please promise me you'll try

_Erik's music…_

When you find

That once again you long

To take your heart back and be free

If you ever find a moment

Spare a thought for me

_Dear gods, am I going mad?_

_But the music faded just as suddenly as it had begun, and as her eyes popped open, she found herself in a spotless white room with a man peering intently at her._

_"What…happened?"_

_"You screamed and fainted, Miss. He was your father?"_

_"He…who…what?" Apparently her brain had decided against functioning properly and refrained from sorting itself out._

_The man, obviously a doctor, didn't respond, instead waiting patiently for Christine to come to her senses. She winced noticeably as her brain opened the floodgates, allowing memories and images to pour into her mind. One picture seemed to stand out—that of a man on the floor, pallid as a ghost. His entire left side dropped, skin hanging in loose folds off his thin frame; it was a gruesome sight. _

_"Papa? Papa…no. Dear gods, no. Where is my Papa?" Her head slowly turned from side to side of its own accord, denying Fate's cruelty. _

_"Where is he? Tell him to come here!" she demanded. "I have so much to tell him—so much he doesn't know…"_

_The doctor continued to look at her, his face contorted with pity. Christine stopped rambling suddenly, and stared through him, speaking with surprising clarity._

_"He's not coming back, is he." It was not a question._

_"A stroke, Miss. The neighbors called police when they noticed that he hadn't picked up a week's worth of newspapers, but we were a week too late. I'm sorry." He swiped a clipboard and pencil from the counter._

_"You are his only child?" She nodded numbly. _

"_If you could please fill out these forms, so we can properly record his status…"_

_Christine was incredulous. He had just informed her that her father was dead, and he wanted her to fill out _forms_! Properly record his status, indeed! Was this man out of his mind?_

"_I know it's a shock, but…" Her eyes grew round. A shock? This was only a shock? "…if you would fill these out…" he set the clipboard down on her bed. "…and then we can help you find a friend in the area to take care of you for a while…"_

"_I have no friends in the area." Her voice was as expressive as a corpse's._

_The doctor's brows furrowed. "We'll figure something out. If you'll excuse me, I must attend to other patients." He promptly rose and, with a last, brief glance, left Christine alone with her thoughts, a pencil, and a clipboard._

Forms,_ she sighed. _Might as well. Name, address, date of birth, place of birth…

Relations—none.

Person to contact in case of emergency— _She bit her lip._ _Who was a good enough friend to care?_

Erik…_her mind whispered, almost laughingly._

Erik, you idiot, is in France. _And_ there has been no form of communication between us for three years. _She settled with writing "Meg Giry" in the blank._

So why do you continue to think about him?

_She had no argument for that._ Shut up.

It would be different if he were here, _it mused smugly._

_Yes, it would have been very different if he was here, but he wasn't here. Not this time…_

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_He was at the piano, as usual. His home was odd, to say the least—it often reminded Christine of somecombination of old, Victorian England and the Arabian Nights, and perhaps even the stories of the palaces of Persia. Thick, colorful tapestries covered the walls where paintings and murals did not, and the first story floors were a glassy, marble material, and patterned elegantly with gold. _

_His parents were never home—he was always alone, and Christine felt bad for him, but he never seemed to mind. She later found out why._

_But now his beautiful, seamless music filled her ears as she stepped through the door, and her eyes flashed to the slender, graceful fingers that danced across the keys. His hands never ceased to amaze her—they could do anything, from snatching books out of her ears to making food disappear from her plate, to soft, gentle, comforting touches, to what they were doing now, moving so quickly that they blurred above the ivory. _

_Erik's head tilted minutely by way of greeting, and without breaking the flow of his composition he remarked, "Do you intend to have a lesson?"_

_Christine chuckled; that was just like Erik. "I think we've had enough lessons in the past week. How about some studying?" It was the week of final exams, and they were fourteen. _

_Erik turned to look at her, but his hands continued their intricate weaving. "Since when was studying necessary for you?" _

_"Since I failed that Physics final last semester."_

_"I believe that was a B you received."_

_"Precisely. Failing."_

_"Of course." Erik heaved a sigh in exaggerated exasperation. "Well then, we shall study. Music, however, is _far_ more important."_

_"Easy for you to say, Mr. Don't-have-to-study-and-still-get-perfects," she retorted. "For some of us, it isn't so effortless." She had dropped her backpack by the sofa and retrieved her physics book. The music finally ended, and she sighed softly with regret as the magic Erik had woven slowly faded into silence and he moved to sit next to her._

_She pointed to several problems and he explained them patiently, without much thought. Physics was simple for him—it seemed that he understood every concept inherently, without even needing to learn it. _

Of course, he understands everything without needing to learn it, really. _Christine chanced a glance at his face, at the angled chin and beautifully sculpted cheekbones—well, cheekbone, as the mask covered the right side of his face, and for the second time in her life she wondered what was under the mask. How bad could it be? But Erik had been vehement about not letting anyone see it, and so she respected his wishes._

_She'd had a crush on him for ages—but so did half the girls in the school. Who wouldn't? Erik was handsome, brilliant, mysterious, talented, respected, polite; he spoke in cadences that would fit a nineteenth century novel, and his voice alone—heavenly, smooth, quiet, but with an unmistakable tone of confidence and authority—could charm any girl. _

_But he never seemed to have any interest in girls; in fact, the only interest he showed in anyone was in Christine, by being her best friend and tutor. She never understood what he saw in her._

_Erik must've realized that she was staring, and raised his intense, electric green eyes to meet her own brown ones. "Is something the matter?" _

_Christine shook her thoughts away, unable to look away from those mesmerizing eyes. "No, no. I…it's just that I understand the problems now." She did. He was amazing._

_Erik inclined his head slightly. "That is all you need, then?" He almost sounded like he wished it wasn't…or was Christine just imagining it?_

"_Yeah." She stood, but didn't really want to leave, feeling the need to return the favor. "Do you want to come over for dinner?" _"_That would be preferable; my culinary talents are rather lacking." _

_Christine smiled as he, ever the gentleman, slid the front door open for her. "See you at dinner!"_

_"Dinner it is."_

**Hmm, I'm not so sure about this chapter. Does it sound forced? I know it's starting out slowly, and all from Christine's view. I'm sort of afraid to write Erik's point of view at the moment, as I don't know him well enough yet. Leave me some feedback?**


	3. Chapter 3

**This is all flashback – that's the reason for the italics. Thanks, all my reviewers!**

_Christine almost skipped home—Erik was coming over for dinner! Usually when he did, he would remain the entire evening, and they would stay up late talking, or Erik would play piano while she sang, and sometimes he'd even join her, their voices intertwining, soaring to the heavens. _

_Home was only a block away from Erik's, and she opened the front door that was never locked in the daytime, slipping in quietly._

_Her house, though cozy, was so very different from his: the white walls, sparsely decorated with a few paintings, appeared empty and neglected, and a plain, light beige carpet covered the floor._

_Christine sprinted up the stairs, attempting to make as little noise as possible so as to not disturb her mother, who was usually sleeping at this time._

_In fact, her mother was usually sleeping, period. As far back as she could remember, Christine and her father had done the chores, cooked, cleaned the house. Her father took care of her, raising her single-handedly—he drove her to school events and to houses of friends, and he alone attended her recitals, concerts and performances._

_Her mother was never there, never around anywhere except at home. For years Christine could not understand why her mother was different from everyone else's, but as she grew older realization dawned, and she resolved to talk to nobody about it._

_At home, years ago, her mother would come out of her room and tell spellbinding stories to young Christine—tales of witches and dragons and princesses and all the things that little girls loved. _

_But the story that always stood out was about Little Lottie—a spoiled, but innocent, child who thought of nothing but dolls, riddles, frocks, shoes, and whatever else caught her fancy—and her Angel of Music, who changed her from a clumsy little girl into a talented musician._

_Christine would imagine herself as Little Lottie, with Erik as her Angel—for who could fit the role better? He had taught her everything he knew since they were ten, and for nothing but the occasional dinner in return. And as her crush developed, Christine reasoned that with Erik as her guardian Angel she could do anything in the world._

_She dropped her books off on her desk, quickly ran a brush through her wild brown locks, and tore downstairs to begin dinner. It wouldn't do to waste precious time with Erik, cooking._

_A half-hour later she set the dishes on the table. It looked good._

_"It smells excellent," came a voice from behind. Christine gasped and the empty bowl slipped from her hands, and she cringed as she waited for the shattering that was sure to come._

_But it never came._

_For Erik was now holding the bowl, twirling it on one finger and leaning calmly against the kitchen counter._

_Christine found herself gaping._

_"I'm not even going to ask how you did that."_

_"I'm magical."_

_"I didn't ask!_

_"It was merely a statement, not an answer."_

_Christine glowered at his amused expression. "One of these days you'll give me a heart attack. Haven't you ever heard of knocking or doorbells?"_

_"You are not in the habit of knocking, either. I do not believe that you should be one to talk."_

_He was right, as usual. For them, knocking seemed an interruption, a hassle, and something that could be done without._

_"I suppose I should thank you for saving my bowl, then. Have a seat? I'll get my Ma."_

_Erik set the bowl on the table and slid gracefully into a chair, waiting as Christine ran up the stairs to her mother's room. _

_It was white, clean, crisp—and reminded Christine of those cold, sterile hospital rooms. She'd suggested that perhaps a bit of cheerful paint would improve her mother's condition, but her father had given her an odd look, and stated simply, "She wouldn't like it that way." That was all._

_"Ma? Dinner's ready. I made your favorite today for dessert—apple crisp. Want to come down?" Christine poked her head into the room, her nostrils flooding with the overly air-freshened scent; it was revolting. _

_"Ma? It's dinnertime. Ma?"_

_No response. Christine walked carefully to the bed, where her mother lay on her stomach, and even before she looked she knew what had happened._

_Suicide._

**Sorry, this is an incredibly short chapter! School started up again, and my teachers seem to believe that because we had two weeks off with minimum amounts of homework, the week we get back we should be swamped with work and projects and tests and various extracurricular activities. Interesting sentiment.**

**I'm having too much fun writing Christine/Erik in the past. I think there will be some more of that. Leave me a review?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Ouch. A happy ending in the last one, eh? By the way, the perspective switches in the middle of this one. I don't know Erik well enough and I want this from Christine's view.**

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Erik, despite his ever-present self-control, was worried. She had been gone for ten minutes—surely calling her mother was not such a difficult task!_

_He climbed up the stairs, wary of disturbing Christine and her mother, but upon noticing the open door to her room, he glanced in. She stood with her back to the door, not moving a muscle, as if frozen in place. He glided noiselessly, graceful as always, stopping to stand behind her._

Ah_. This was a familiar scene._ Her mother is dead._ Erik took a seat on the chair, still silent, waiting for her to speak._

_But apparently, Christine had no intention of saying anything anytime in the near future. She moved forward, picking up a note, not turning around, not noticing his presence._

_It was her mother's elegant writing—as much as she tried, Christine had never been able to copy the beautiful, looping letters. _

_"_There is a reason for this. Please don't think that it's anyone's fault but my own. All of these years, I've failed as a mother to you, all because of this disease—I'm sorry. You've been forced to grow up so quickly.

Your father understands and knew that this would happen, eventually. Take care of him, and keep up with your music. For me, and for yourself.

Love you—Mom_."_

_And that would be the last time the stylish script would grace any sheet of paper. Tears pricked her eyes as Christine reread the tiny note. Her mother was dead. Despite everything, all the care she had given, all the hours her mother spent in her room, not talking, staring blankly at the wall—despite everything, Christine still loved her—her enthralling stories, her beautiful voice, her quiet elegance. And now, despite everything, she was _dead

_"We all die, eventually."_

_Christine blinked, too numb to react. When'd he get here? He moved like a ghost…_

_"It still hurts." She couldn't stop staring at her mother's bloodless face._

_"Sometimes." He was suddenly at her side, and when she finally turned away to peek at his face, she noticed his gaze, looking morosely at her mother's body, as if recalling some bitter memory. "What was she like?"_

_"She was beautiful, and kind when she had the energy to leave bed. I remember, as a child, her voice lulling me to sleep—I always imagined that it was an angel's voice in my ear—it was so clear, so hypnotic…when she sang…" she glanced up, abruptly. "When she sang, she sounded like you."_

_Erik looked at her sharply, an odd expression on his face. "I am no angel, Christine."_

_For a moment silence dominated, as they stood awkwardly in the room with a corpse._

_Then Erik broke it, his inhumanly beautiful voice cutting through the air. "Shall we call your father?"_

"_Probably," Christine said dully, and then hesitated. "On second thought, he probably already knows. He always knows when something happens to Ma." She shook her head, and her next words were barely a whisper, but Erik heard. "It wasn't supposed to end like this…Ma was strong, Ma was beautiful—Ma would be different than the others. She wouldn't succumb to the depression like everyone else, the doctor said. She had spirit and she would get over it. She would get better. She would begin to live a normal life with us, be a normal mother, like everyone else's. She would come to my concerts and pick me up and see me off to college…_

"_They lied, didn't they. They knew that she wasn't getting better, but they had to dangle that bit of hope in front of our noses, to keep us plodding on." She was crying now, but she barely noticed. "Damn them, damn it all! All these years—"_

_She broke off suddenly, for now Erik had his arms around her, his presence warm and comforting against her back. His scent engulfed her, and she breathed it in gladly—roses, spice, the fresh, natural air on a sunny spring day. Gentle, warm, soothing. He had never been so _close_…Christine wanted to drown in it, to turn around and hug him back and stay like that forever…but she contented herself with closing her eyes and resting her head on his chest. For that single moment she could forget, and escape from the world to wander in her dreams and fantasies—but then she pulled back in realization of what she had just said._

"_I'm sorry, Erik. I'm sorry to draw you into this mess; I'm sure you have enough problems of your own…I'm so sorry! Let's go, wait for Papa, he'll take care of Ma, and when she's—she's…"_

"_Christine, calm yourself. Come." He led her into her own bedroom, settling her down on the bed before speaking, his voice velvet, muted. "Your mother will always be there, whether or not you wish her gone. She created you as a part of her, and she shall remain a part of you." Something in his tone made Christine look at him with curiosity. _

"_What happened to your mother?"_

_What a reaction those harmless, simple five words triggered! He stiffened instantly, fists clenching, eyes locking onto the blank white wall in front of him, as if he could bore holes into it with the incredible intensity of his stare. It seemed, however, that he had no intention of replying._

"_You don't have to answer, you know." She hesitantly placed her hand on his tense arm, but he flinched lightly, and she gave up. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"_

_Awkward silence. Christine wasn't quite sure of what to do. Her mother had just died—and that in itself was shocking enough—but now Erik seemed angry at nothing in particular, though she noted that the topic of his parents had never been brought up in conversation. Ever. _

_After an eon, Erik sighed, shaking his head with what seemed to be remorse. "No, I should be sorry. I apologize for my…disturbing reaction. I do not often speak of my mother." And that was that._

_Christine's father came home soon enough, already with the knowledge of what had happened. He wasn't surprised or extremely sad—just quietly accepting. He took care of things from there, with the small funeral and paperwork, and they slowly adapted to life without Christine's beautiful, depressed mother. _

_But that night, and the days after, would remain in Christine's memory for years to come. Erik's calm comforting while she wept, her own embarrassment at showing such foolish emotion, his light smirk as he pulled her into his arms and held her close, the feeling of peace and ecstasy that swept over her as this incredible, unattainable boy— this angel, no matter what he said—softly sang her to sleep…_

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Meg, I'm going out for a bit. I'll be back before dinner."

"Are you sure you're okay, Chris?" Meg's voice floated down from the bathroom of the house they shared. "I can drive you around, wherever you want."

"I'm alright—I just need to get out, get some fresh air, you know. Too much practicing for the new opera at the Met lately. I need a break." Meg was so sweet to offer, though.

She came down the stairs then, hairbrush in hand, her blonde hair looking as gorgeous as ever. She was clad in a brilliant, strapless red dress that hugged her curves to her knees and flared out near the bottom. Christine rolled her eyes. "Another date?"

"Hey, I like to have fun, and guys like me! What can I say? You know, you do need a break. How about we both go to the party tonight?"

"Party?" Apparently, Christine was behind the times. "Juilliard students hold parties? Hmm."

Meg snorted, teasing. "Maybe not your group of high-achieving, academic-freak friends, but my friends certainly do! Anyway, we're graduated now, so we aren't technically students anymore. Come on, you need it—just come and relax, and we'll dance and have a drink or two. Maybe you'll even meet a guy…" she grinned mischievously, and Christine despaired.

"Oh gods. What have I gotten myself into now…perhaps I should leave for an _extended_ amount of time."

"Loosen up, Chrissie! You're coming with me tonight." Meg's eyes strayed to the clock by the door. "Woops, I'd better not be late. Not a good first impression. Relax some—I'll make dinner tonight. And then we party." She held up her hand as Christine began to protest. "No arguments! We party. See you later!" And just like that, she slipped out the door, leaving an amused and irritated Christine to shake her head incredulously. Meg. This was why she loved Meg, despite all their differences—Christine's obsession with academics and singing to Meg's obvious love of partying and dance. But Meg was leaving in four months for London, as a dancer in one of their famous theatres, while Christine stayed in New York, singing and mourning the loss of both Meg and her father.

She sighed, moving outside, locking the door behind her. She would go to the party tonight, and she would not waste the time left she and Meg had together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You're coming, you're coming! Yaaay!" Meg squealed.

Laughing, Christine picked up a brush, running it through her unruly, irritatingly long, dark brown curls. "You sound like me…when I was four years old."

"Hey, no harm in being a kid. They're more fun than adults."

Christine pretended to be offended. "We are adults! …Sort of. Though that is a good point.

"What the heck am I supposed to wear?" She rummaged through her closet, finding only a few fancy old dresses, all of which were from various performances. "I really don't have any party clothes."

Meg thought for a second and held up a finger before rushing out of the room. She soon returned with a simple, elegant black number, with small ruffles decorating the bottom. "Try this? It'll fit you better than it fits me." Without waiting for a reply, she quickly ushered Christine into the bathroom and closed the door. "Let me know if you need help!"

Christine chuckled and slipped the dress on, examining herself in the mirror. Thin straps, figure-hugging. Pretty. Maybe tonight would be fun, after all. As she stepped out, Meg squealed for the second time in ten minutes, and this time Christine clapped her hands over her ears. "Eesh, I'm going to go deaf!"

Meg ignored her. "You look beautiful! All the guys will be falling head over heels for a chance to dance with you!" She grinned proudly, having already donned her outfit—the red strapless from earlier. "Makeup, heels, nail polish, hair, and then we're ready to go!"

Christine groaned loudly. "I remember why I hate social gatherings now."

An hour of makeup, nail polish, hair and heels later, they finally had managed to get into the car with directions to the restaurant at which the party was held. Christine had to admit that the beautifying paid off, and for the first time in the two and a half months after her father's death, she allowed herself to feel the mildest bit of excitement.

The restaurant was fancy, with a bar and formal dance floor. It wasn't one of those get-drunk-and-make-out parties—in fact, it reminded Christine of something more nineteenth-century—of ballrooms and waltzing and elegant classical music. She wondered briefly who could afford to host such a party and rent out this place, but that thought quickly flew away as Meg dragged her over to a table with a few guys, who greeted Meg with familiarity.

"Hey guys, I want to introduce Miss Christine Daae—single and completely up for grabs!"

Christine sent her a very, very hate-filled, murderous glare. "I don't believe that would be a good idea. Single for a reason." The three men laughed. One stood and extended his hand. "Hey, I'm Mike."

"I'm Vince." Another handshake.

"David." Yet another handshake.

Christine smiled and nodded to them. "Nice to meet you all. I think I'll get some food now," she said, glancing pointedly at the buffet tables.

They chuckled again. "Food-minded, like guys. Interesting girl you are," said one—Vince, was it? Christine smirked, waved and headed off with her friend. "Nice people."

Meg beamed. "They're good friends. Before you go off and gorge yourself, though, I want you to meet the host of the party. He's another friend of mine, from the Chicago area, like you." She apparently caught sight of him, for she stopped and said, "Wait here, I'll bring him."

So Christine stood for a moment, examining the many figures on the dance floor, swirling to old classical music. Ah, the wonders of a musical school—no rap, no country, no irritating music that really isn't music. Classical was much more fun to dance to!

"Christine!" Meg was behind her, and she turned to find a man following behind her friend, dressed in a crisp black tuxedo and silk blue tie. He and Christine both froze.

"Christine?"

"_Raoul?_"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Wee, and I will leave you here. Have fun, and drop off some reviews, please! I'd like to know what parts are good, what parts are not, so that hopefully such parts may be improved. Sorry for the long time between updates—school, unfortunately, gets in the way. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers!**


	5. Chapter 5

Meg looked from one friend to the other, and back again. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing." They spoke in unison, and then each ventured a small laugh. "It's been a while, Christine." Raoul held out his hand. "Would you care to dance?"

After an almost unnoticeable moment of slight hesitation, Christine consented. "Certainly."

And they joined the couples on the dance floor, both slightly awkward, not sure of what to say. Finally, Raoul broke the tense silence and said, "I didn't know that you went to Juilliard."

"They offered me a last-moment scholarship. Pretty nice."

"Oh." Another bit of uncomfortable quiet.

This time Christine was the one to speak. "What did you end up majoring in?"

"Business management. Pressure from parents to preserve the DeChagny family fortune, more than personal choice."

Christine frowned. "Business management? At Juilliard? I didn't even know we offered that…"

Raoul laughed, shaking his head, and the tension almost dissipated. "I somehow got into Stern—family relations, probably."

"Impressive. And the purpose of this party is to…find prospective business partners?" joked Christine.

"Ha. I wouldn't do that, even if the family didn't consider 'partnership' a pride-wounding concept. No, I have lots of friends from Juilliard, so I invited a few."

"That's the only reason why you hold an expensive party in this fancy restaurant?" She gestured to the elaborate decorations, live musicians, and polished dance floor. It was excessive for a modern-day party—the atmosphere almost resembled that of a nineteenth-century ball.

Raoul hesitated. "Well…my family is a bit…odd, you might say. You know, traditional. They want me to find a, er, girlfriend, so that I may someday produce…heirs—and, seeing as I am currently single, they are worrying." He sighed. "Silly, isn't it? But hey, we get to party and have fun."

Christine quirked an eyebrow as her lips involuntarily curved up. "You haven't changed."

"And neither have you. Still too sardonic for your own good."

Christine rolled her eyes and was about to respond when the song ended and another girl, a pretty, thin blonde, tapped Raoul on the shoulder to ask for a dance. He hesitated, his eyes flicking back to Christine, his hand still on her waist, and he motioned for the girl to wait.

"Christine…" he paused, tentative, uncertain. "…Would you like to meet me here for dinner this Friday? We have lots of catching up to do, and it would be just like the old days." His eyes searched hers, begging, imploring.

Christine backed out of his grasp, wary of the offer. The past was the past, and it needed to be put behind. "I don't think that would be a good idea…"

"Please, Christine. Just this once, for old times' sake." He appeared to have completely forgotten the poor blonde in his pleading for her to answer yes. She pitied the girl.

"Alright. For old times' sake." _Just so that he doesn't leave the poor girl standing there_, she told herself. Nothing more to it. And as the next song began, Raoul nodded, turning to cordially greet the blonde, polite and restrained.

Christine breathed a small sigh of relief, walking quickly away from the crowded dance floor and toward the table where Meg now sat. "Meg? Meg, I'm leaving now."

Meg turned, surprised. "Is something wrong? Why so early?"

She faltered only a moment, but her friend saw. "Nothing is wrong—I'm tired, is all."

"I think I'd better come with." Meg rose and picked up her purse.

"No, no. I'd rather be left alone now. You go and have fun—you deserve it."

"And you don't?"

"I'm not used to these…social affairs. I'll just take a taxi home. I need some quiet, alone-time."

Meg looked her over, scrutinizing. "It's Raoul, isn't it?"

Christine sighed. "I really don't want to talk about it right now. I'll tell you tomorrow, okay? Thanks for bringing me here—I did have fun." She gave a small smile. "I'll see you later!"

"Wait! Call me when you get home, kay?"

"Will do." Christine hurried through the front door, hoping that Meg would not change her mind. Too much had happened tonight—Raoul was somehow back in her life, right when she had decided to put all the deaths behind her and just move on. But no, Fate had decided to intervene. Why could it never leave her alone? Why could she not be _happy_ for a change, and live a normal life?

She turned the corner and, realizing that she had no idea where she'd wandered, swore profusely. New York City was not a good place to be at night. Christine spotted a taxi a few hundred feet away and almost sprinted toward it, her pulse racing in irrational fear. Behind her—were those footsteps? She ran as quickly as her heels would allow, racing toward the taxi, her only possible safe haven. But somehow her foot twisted and she went down, hitting the pavement with a sickening crack.

As Christine painfully dragged herself upright, cursing herself for choosing to wear such an inhibiting dress, she noted slight thumping off to the side. _Not good. You idiot._Pain shot through her ankle as she stood but she ignored it and raced down the sidewalk, away from danger and fear, real or imagined.

A heavy weight hit her from behind. _Oh God._ She tried to scream, claws at his hands, thrashing in his grasp, but a hand wrapped tightly around her mouth. God, she needed air! He was suffocating her, she couldn't breathe…her elbow connected with something soft, and for a moment the blessed cold night air rushed in to refresh her senses, but then the hand came back, and another grabbed her abdomen.

Christine stomped on what she hoped was a toe and simultaneously worked her mouth open to bite the offending hand; her efforts were rewarded with a few colorful words and a slap to the temple, and her vision swam dangerously. Christine forced her loose hand up, smashing into his nose, but he caught it and pinned it to her stomach as he dealt another blow to her head.

Now her vision disappeared altogether, and she couldn't see anything…

Nothing but the darkness…

Darkness…

If her life would end like this, then so be it. But for a fleeting moment before she sank into blessed unconsciousness, Raoul's face, his warm brown eyes, appeared in her mind, and she wondered where he was…

Then the face grew sharper, more chiseled, as a white mask materialized on one side, and the eyes turned a piercing green. Regret claimed her as she stared into those fathomless depths, filled with such sadness, such loneliness…and before they sent her down into the warm darkness, she wondered, briefly, where _he_ was…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Meg, where's Christine?" Raoul was worried—he could not find his old friend anywhere in the restaurant.

"She left about a minute ago." Meg paused, looking him in the eye. "What is with you and Christine?"

Raoul ignored her question. "You let her leave _alone_ in the middle of the night? This is New York! All kinds of things could happen to her!"

His friend rolled her eyes. "She wanted to be alone, Raoul. She can take care of herself. What is with you—"

He didn't let her finish. "Which way?" Meg sighed, giving up on her attempts to extort information from him.

"She turned right. You won't find her; I'm sure that she's found a taxi by now. Besides, you're hosting the party! You can't just leave!"

Evidently Raoul either did not hear or did not care, for he rushed out of the front door and headed right, running as quickly as his stiff, formal attire would allow, with only one thought pervading his mind:

_If Christine is hurt tonight, it will all be my fault…_

He pushed himself forward with that knowledge—that if Christine were hurt tonight he would be the one to blame _again_…as if it wasn't bad enough back then!

It was irrational, he knew—he had loved her once, but that was long ago, in the distant past. They were older now. He couldn't imagine why he was behaving so oddly…

He spotted a taxi, its lights glowing in the distance. But between them, there was nobody. The sidewalk was empty, completely and eerily deserted. Raoul slowed to a brisk walk, hesitating, wondering if he was wrong and she was safe, after all.

Then he heard the softest thump shatter the still night air like a bullet, and he rushed forward again, this time finding a break in the buildings—an alley.

Raoul peered cautiously around the corner but could only see the thick darkness…and the flash of a sequin on the ground.

A sequin?

Anger flared.

He had no weapon, he knew, but hopefully the man was unarmed. Perhaps those martial arts lessons he had taken with Christine, so many years ago, would pay off, after all—that is, if he managed to remember anything.

Swiftly loosening his tie, Raoul stepped forward behind the man, who was still distracted by the struggling lump on the ground. He clutched both ends of the silky fabric and swung it over the man's head, catching the neck and drawing it tight; a split second later, he jammed his foot into the back of the man's knee, and the offender collapsed into the makeshift noose, breathing laboriously, eyes squeezed shut.

How dare this man touch Christine! Raoul let the tie drop and pummeled the head with his fists, letting the anger slowly seep out with each strike, until he was drained of everything but worry for Christine…

Christine!

"Christine? Christine, are you alright?" He rushed to her side, gently cradling her delicate head.

Blood—there was blood everywhere. "God, Christine…no, oh no…" His fingers ran softly over her split lip and cheek, smearing more blood onto her pale face.

More blood? He glanced at his hands, alarmed. _Idiot._ They were covered in blood.

Shaking now, Raoul fumbled with his suit jacket pocket, finally pulling out a cell phone. Somehow, through the bloodlust-induced haze and trembling fingers, he managed to dial the police.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Christine was dragging him toward the auditorium. "Come on, Erik. Just try it! Besides, you can't miss a production of _Beauty and the Beast_! You'd be perfect!" _

_He raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying something?" _

_"Of course not. Would I ever insult you?"_

_"Yes."_

_She just grinned, not bothering to reply. _

_"…And I have no music prepared."_

_"You always have music prepared! Actually, scratch that. You don't even need to prepare music! You'll get a part regardless…you _compose_ music, you silly boy." _

_Erik heaved a sigh, apparently giving up on his attempts to resist Christine's enthusiasm. Each year, the high school put on a huge musical production. As freshmen, Christine had wanted her friend to audition for a spot in _The Music Man_, but Erik had declined, preferring to keep to his composing. Now, a year later, she wasn't about to give in so easily—Erik certainly possessed the talent and the…_aura_…required of a lead role. _

_Fingers still wrapped in a tight grip around Erik's wrist, Christine proceeded to lead them through the vast auditorium and onto the stage, where a circle of teens had gathered. She squeezed through the crowd, finally managing to reach the audition sign-ups; quickly she scribbled her name under "Belle," and handed the pen to Erik._

_"The Beast," she told him._

_"As you wish." Very subservient behavior for one so proud, Christine noted…until she saw the barely concealed smirk. He jotted down his name in his trademark childish scrawl that somehow managed to be simultaneously elegant. As he turned around, Christine triumphantly mirrored his smirk._

_"Auditions tomorrow, then!"_

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Sorry about it taking forever to update. Time seems to hate me, so the next update will take a while, as it's February and for some reason every competition seems to be scheduled in this month. There will also be much more Erik in the next chapter :D. And I'm all for EC. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for those of you who were actually favoriting this story and putting it on your alert – I've been ridiculously busy with school this past year, and now college apps. Hope you enjoy this one!**

* * *

"_Remind me again why I am here?" Erik strode through the auditorium doors after Christine, beginning to regret his hasty agreement to audition. _

_"Because you can hypnotize the audience and bring them all to their knees with your voice, perhaps."  
"You overestimate my ability," he remarked, efficiently concealing his pleasure at the fact that his student—and only friend—thought so highly of him._

_"I think not." They walked side by side past the countless seats, the atmosphere buzzing with the excitement and apprehension of hopeful students. "Regardless, we'll see after your performance, won't we?"_

_Erik merely shrugged; he had yet to select a piece for this tryout—not that he really needed to ever practice his pieces…but that was beside the point. He did not greatly desire to be in the musical anyway—curse Christine and her begging!_

_They sat in the plush red seats, not too near any other students. The teens clumped in groups—Erik noted the dancers at one second, the singers at another; various other groups—tech, backstage, costume—seemed to be scattered among them, or hung out in their own designated area._

_Suddenly Erik felt very out of place, a ruby in a sea of sapphires and emeralds. This—this social stuff—this was not his domain, not for him. Solitude was the best option, and music, always…for he never seemed to belong._

_Except, perhaps, with Christine._

_Not romantically, of course—she was his student, after all. But with her there was peace and no guilt, no remorse, no regret or hatred, no plague of irritating emotions to bother him. Only peace. _

_Somehow she was different. She didn't seem to care about the mask, for she ignored it as if it were never there. No, Christine befriended him for his talents, his personality, his music. Or so he hoped, at the very least._

_His attention was diverted as Mr. Poligny, the choir director, called, "Next. Margarita Lasler." A pretty, though mildly voluminous and rather artificial, young singer stepped up to the stage; clad in a decadent dress decorated with bright, golden sequins, she certainly looked the part of the narcissistic diva. _

_But with ease, Margarita's voice gracefully leapt octaves and hit each note with perfect precision. As her last tone pierced the air, hung for a moment, and slowly died away, her expression contorted with pride, as if she knew right then and there that the lead part would be hers. Christine turned to Erik, shaken and suddenly nervous._

_"There is no way that I will be playing Belle."_

_"Nonsense. Your voice is far more angelic and polished than hers. Besides, her ego appears to be larger than…" Erik racked his brain for any particularly large objects. "…larger than the state of California." _

_He paused a moment, frowning. "That was a terrible analogy. I am losing my touch," he lamented._

_Christine laughed aloud, the tension that had built up within her seeping away. "What touch?"_

_Erik sent her a glare, pursing his lips and attempting not to smile. "Do tell me that you have found me interesting at one point in time?"_

_Christine laughed outright. "Oh, Erik…"_

"_Next. Christine Daae."_

_Erik heard her sudden intake of breath, and gave her hand a squeeze of reassurance. "You will be wonderful. After all, I am your teacher."_

_She walked onstage with a grin, confident, thanking whatever gods were out there for Erik's very existence._

"_What piece will you perform?" Mr. Poligny inquired. Christine handed him several sheets of music._

"Think of Me_. By Erik Lavonne." Erik started at the sound of his name. His music? She was going to audition with his music? And then she shifted slightly, her eyes staring straight at him. "And for Erik Lavonne." _

_He felt the crowd murmur more than heard it—how bold she was, to express her affection toward the mysterious, masked boy! She was such a sweet girl, so trusting, loving…but no, he could not, would not take their relationship to anything past platonic. His dear, naïve Christine had never seen behind his mask, and if he had his way, she never would. Let her dream and fantasize—after all, it was better to be loved as a mysterious, eccentric man than reviled as a monster…wasn't it? Besides, she did not care about it like the others—it set her apart, made her different, special. So why did it all matter, anyway?_

_Christine's clear, pure voice, painstakingly sculpted and molded by Erik himself, rang through the auditorium atmosphere, and a hush fell over the audience. Soaring high one moment, and suddenly low the next, soft and tender, bitter with regret and longing…the song wove through the spellbound students, into their hearts, as if the pain, the remorse, was all their own._

Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade,

They have their seasons so do we.

But please promise me that sometimes

You will think…

Of me!

_Even before the music faded the audience was on its feet, applauding for the shy, quiet girl who never spoke in class, for the beauty, the passion, the raw _talent_ so evident within her, for the incredible longing that she brought into them all._

_And Erik found himself beaming, perhaps for the first time in his life—all the effort, frustrations, time…she was worth every minute. Christine seemed to understand this as she stepped gracefully from the stage, striding back her seat. _

_"That wasn't so bad," she remarked with satisfaction, flashing a brilliant smile at her mentor. _

_Erik quirked an eyebrow, shaking his head in amusement. "Not so bad? That was exceptional. Brilliant. They will certainly give you the part."_

_A grin. "We'll see."_

* * *

For the umpteenth time in three months, Christine's head was pounding, yet again, as she woke up. The damned light was too bright, and Christine angrily pulled her covers over her head, burying her face in the warm, dark covers.

For some odd reason, there was something rough wrapped around her forehead. And her stomach hurt.

_Ugh, there's nothing to eat for breakfast. I hope Meg actually cooked this morning. _She rethought that. _Hah, fat chance_. Meg hated cooking. Which meant that Christine had to get up. Ugh.

She cracked an eye open; the room smelled funny today—maybe it was Meg's new perfume or something. Her vision met with a bleached white ceiling, and as her head turned a plethora of bottles, tubes, and liquid-filled bags came into view.

This was not home.

Where on earth was she?

"Christine, you're awake!" Her head pivoted, her eyes fixing on the rather disheveled-looking man who slumped in a chair.

"You're in the hospital," Raoul explained, responding to Christine's wide-eyed, very shocked, very bewildered expression.

"I…what? Why?" Wait, Raoul? What was Raoul doing here?

"Do you remember anything from yesterday? You were at my party, and then you ran out. I came after you, but somewhere between the time that you left and the time that I got there, some guy attacked and attempted to mug, or possibly rape, you."

Christine blinked. "What happened to the guy?"

"He's in the prison hospital now; I half-strangled him with my tie." Raoul grinned, a bit smug.

"Oh."

Christine had no particular desire to be around Raoul at this moment. It was difficult to deal with him yesterday even without her pounding head; the constant buzzing seemed to heighten his smug, superiority complex attitude. He'd always been like this…she had no idea how she'd never realized it as young girl.

"The doctor says you'll be out by Thursday." Raoul went on, his voice becoming more and more nasal and irritating in Christine's throbbing mind. "You were lucky that I got there in time—you only have a few cuts and bruises."

Christine just stared, but he evidently didn't notice.

"So since you'll be out in time, we're still going out to lunch on Friday, right?"

_How dare he expect such a thing from someone who's almost been mugged? Can't this guy give me a break? Can't he see that I don't love him, don't want to be around him anymore? I've told him so many times…why can't he just move on, find someone else? Why me?_

But Christine didn't voice her thoughts. Instead, the idea popping into her head for no reason at all, she told him, "No. I'm going to Europe."

* * *

**Europe, eh? I sense something happening…Reviews will motivate me to write the next chapter more quickly ). Thus, please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys! School started, so updates are slow…hope you enjoy this chapter, some new developments appear ).**

* * *

For the umpteenth time in two months, Christine's head was pounding, yet again, as she woke up. The damned light was too bright, and Christine angrily pulled her covers over her head, burying her face in the warm, dark covers.

For some odd reason, there was something rough wrapped around her forehead. And her stomach hurt.

_Ugh, there's nothing to eat for breakfast. I hope Meg actually cooked this morning. _She rethought that. _Hah, fat chance_. Meg hated cooking. Which meant that Christine had to get up. Ugh.

She cracked an eye open; the room smelled funny today—maybe it was Meg's new perfume or something. Her vision met with a bleached white ceiling, and as her head turned a plethora of bottles, tubes, and liquid-filled bags came into view.

This was not home.

Where on earth was she?

"Christine, you're awake!" Her head pivoted, her eyes fixing on the rather disheveled-looking man who slumped in a chair.

"You're in the hospital," Raoul explained, responding to Christine's wide-eyed, very shocked, very bewildered expression.

"I…what? Why?" Wait, Raoul? What was Raoul doing here?

"Do you remember anything from yesterday? You were at my party, and then you ran out. I came after you, but somewhere between the time that you left and the time that I got there, some guy attacked and attempted to mug, or possibly rape, you."

Christine blinked. "What happened to the guy?"

"He's in the prison hospital now; I half-strangled him with my tie." Raoul grinned, a bit smug.

"Oh."

Christine had no particular desire to be around Raoul at this moment. It was difficult to deal with him yesterday even without her pounding head; the constant buzzing seemed to heighten his smug, superiority complex attitude. He'd always been like this…she had no idea how she'd never realized it as young girl.

"The doctor says you'll be out by Thursday." Raoul went on, his voice becoming more and more nasal and irritating in Christine's throbbing mind. "You were lucky that I got there in time—you only have a few cuts and bruises."

Christine just stared, but he evidently didn't notice.

"So since you'll be out in time, we're still going out to lunch on Friday, right?"

_How dare he expect such a thing from someone who's almost been mugged? Can't this guy give me a break? Can't he see that I don't love him, don't want to be around him anymore? I've told him so many times…why can't he just move on, find someone else? Why me?_

But Christine didn't voice her thoughts. Instead, the idea popping into her head for no reason at all, she told him, "No. I'm going to Europe."

* * *

_"ERIK! Erik! You're the Beast! You're the Beast!" Christine ran wildly to her friend's locker, almost causing him to drop his pile of textbooks. "You're the Beast!"_

_A very amused Erik peered out from behind his books, and stated, "You know, I really would rather be called 'the best' instead of 'the Beast'. Why is it that you cannot run through the hallways screaming that I am the best?" _

_Christine threw a playful punch at his arm. "Silly stuck-up boy. You don't need affirmation of your being the best."_

_Erik grinned in mock-smugness. "Well then. What role did you get?"_

_"Guess!" Christine was nearly bobbing up and down in excitement._

_"Let's see…I would say Mrs. Potts, perhaps?"_

_This time her punch was not as playful. "Are you implying that I resemble a fat, old, married lady?" _

_"Of course not."_

_"I am _not_ fat!"_

_"Of course not."_

_Christine dramatically heaved a great sigh. "You," she poked a finger into his ribs, "are absolutely insufferable."_

_"Thank you." _

_That was Erik—the light banter, the sharp sense of humor, the unfailing ability to always come up with a comeback for her teasing. It was utterly infuriating. _

_And Christine absolutely loved it._

* * *

"You're going to Europe?" Meg blinked for a bit, settling onto her bed. "Why?"

"I've graduated, and I hear that Paris offers some of the best opportunities for singers these days—especially in the opera business. Americans just don't appreciate a good voice unless it's on Broadway, and I don't like New York." Christine was sitting cross-legged on her bed, flipping through a few travel magazines, and gazing at the photographs of glorious sunsets and beautiful twinkling lights at night. _So beautiful…so romantic.__It'll be good for me._ "And Paris is pretty."

The room around them was of divided flavor—Meg's side was bright, the walls pasted with posters and pictures of her favorite movie stars; her stuff was scattered everywhere on her bed and desk, leaving almost no room to work. Christine's area was just the opposite—her walls were entirely clean, a pale glaring white, and her few belongings all packed away into the drawers of her desk. She despised disorganization.

"What about Raoul? He seems to have some interest in you. You're just going to leave him hanging here? After all, he did sort of rescue you."

"I sent him a thank-you and returned some stuff I borrowed from him as a kid, but yes. I'm just going to leave him hanging." Christine looked forward to many things, but Raoul was not on the list. Paris also meant space, freedom…away from her childhood. Away from her memories.

Meg moved over to her roommate's bed to examine the magazines. "What happened between you two? You act like old sweethearts or something."

"We were."

"And?" Christine always seemed to become close-mouthed when it came to talking about her past.

"Things didn't work out."

Meg sighed in exasperation. "Christine, are you running from something? What actually happened?"

"There was someone else." Christine tried very hard to seem absorbed in her magazines.

"Someone else? What do you mean? You _cheated_ on him?"

Her head jerked up to look at Meg in shock. "NO! I would never cheat on anyone! Raoul and I were childhood friends, and in seventh grade, we both thought that perhaps there was something more. We tried the whole relationship deal. He thought it worked, and it did…for a while. He was nice and sweet and all—he gave me flowers and all that classic romantic stuff when he was supposed to, but that was just the thing. He was supposed to, and I expected it. It was all so…predictable.

"In the middle of freshman year I decided that he wasn't for me. My father had always told me to keep my options open, not entangle myself in a relationship that I wasn't enjoying. So I listened to him."

"So who were you keeping your options open for?"

"Erik. I doubt that he ever felt the same for me…"

Meg was puzzled—Christine had never mentioned this…this Erik. "Who's Erik?"

"My best friend."

"Oooh, you fell in love with your best friend? That's a pretty bad situation to be in. Mum always told me there were reasons why best friends were best friends and not more than that. Between a guy and a girl, that is." Meg placed her hand on her friend's shoulder in a comforting gesture.

Christine's eyes were faraway, gazing at something that had long passed. "That's why I'm going to Europe."

Christine was going to Europe to seek a lost love? It didn't seem like her to be lovesick like that—she was strong, stubborn, independent. Perhaps there was some other reason…"This Erik—he's in Europe?"

"Yes."

* * *

**Reviews inspire me and make me update faster! Especially good, descriptive, long reviews dictating what you like and don't like…but hey, that's a lot to ask for. So just review! (Please). **


End file.
